


to the very depths of hell

by princess_of_rebels



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimson Flower Route, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Morality, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Love, M/M, My Unit | Byleth Has Emotions, Sad Ending, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24734146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_of_rebels/pseuds/princess_of_rebels
Summary: The history books briefly speak of a former mercenary who became a professor and later a strategist for the Adrestian Empire, mentioning him like an afterthought, just like the boy who killed his father and was placed elsewhere. They speak in detail of the Ashen Demon and the Death Knight instead, trying to discern their reasons, not knowing that they had none; they examine their relationship, ultimately unable to determine its very nature. They speak of how close they were, getting it all wrong. Some say they still wander hell, slaughtering, and it would be a comforting thought, to know that they found their twisted happiness; if only there was such a thing as the afterlife.
Relationships: Jeritza von Hrym/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	to the very depths of hell

**Author's Note:**

> possible mild spoilers for other routes, if you squint hard enough.
> 
> you've seen the tags. there is no happy end. if you do react strongly to such content, please take the necessary precautions.

> _I will tumble down with you._

His skin crawls inside the monastery. A strange sense of dread settles in his stomach whenever he sees Rhea. Surrounded by all the students, knights, and staff, he’s suffocating. Too many people, too many expectations, when he knows nothing but fighting: his father raised him right in the middle of it, and he took to it like a moth to the light.

Walking old paths and sleeping in an unfamiliar, permanent bed forces a bitter taste up his throat. This is no life for him. He is a mercenary, always has been, since he could hold a blade; it is his very nature. Making him teach is like trying to tame a beast.

But he has not refused, so he keeps his head low and deals with it. He wonders why; could he have said no? His stomach twists. No.

He makes his way down the dormitories, to the greenhouse and fishing pond, across the market and along the stables, up to the cathedral, the second floor, the reception hall, the dining hall, through the gardens, until he eventually reaches the training grounds. It does not put him at ease, restlessness has taken ahold of him and he wants to venture far across the continent, but, alas, he cannot, so he makes his round once more.

When he steps into the reception hall a second time, he stills.

Perhaps it is his intuition as mercenary, perhaps it is something much simpler than that, but even only looking at that man – pale hair and skin and a mask – stirs something inside of him. His hands twitch, he longs for a sword, he longs for battle, he longs for the days where there was no point in bothering with the Church and nations, where he was not expected to involve himself in all the politics of it.

It is like seeing the other birds soar through the sky when you’re confined to a cage.

“You look bored,” the combat instructor says. “Care to duel?”

“A duel?” Byleth asks, the shadow of a cruel smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. _I’d love to_ , he thinks but does not say it, keeping it to himself like so many other words. At some point in his life, he has forgotten where he begins and where the Ashen Demon ends; it is all the same now, all the blood he has washed from his hands, all the death he has brought, and unlike the children he teaches, he cannot feel remorse. (Reveling in being a demon has always been easier than addressing the fact that he is no ordinary man; Jeralt has never breathed a word of it. What for? It is enough to care for each other.)

Ultimately, they do not duel, _just yet_ , but he asks for instructions, which come close enough to actual combat that he sleeps easier that night.

After their first real mission, his students ask him what to do about killing people, as it cannot be helped, but he can only stare at them blankly, looking for words to speak that will not terrify him, because, to him, a life means nothing. He kills. He moves on. He watches as the water washes it from him, he finds himself staring at the deep red splatters on his face, and his lips curl into a smile. He is a demon, through and through.

Objectively, he knows it is wrong, but he also knows that, when he places a hand over his heart, that he cannot feel it beating. Maybe, if he did, he would not take joy in what he does. Maybe he would feel alive outside of the battlefield. Maybe.

Byleth shakes his head and looks at Linhardt, “I’ll keep you out of direct combat,” he tells him and notes the relief in the boy’s eyes. What would he think of him if his past became known? What does it matter, in the end?

Another moon passes and he slips into blissful routine, practice battles keep him at ease between the missions, training contributes to his steadiness. At one point, he finds his father outside, the night dark and silent around them as they sit under the starry sky, like they have done so often.

This time, though, the Blade Breakers aren’t chatting in the background, the lively bunch they are.

“Dad?” He sounds more like himself now; in the classroom, it is only functioning, and while he does enjoy teaching, his true calling lays far from here.

“Yes?” Jeralt sighs, as if he has long expected this conversation. Perhaps he has; he figures his father would have preferred it if he hadn’t followed so closely in his footsteps.

“Do you miss being a mercenary?” He looks at him.

He sets his mug down on the bench and takes a heavy breath, once more looking like he carries the world on his shoulders. “I’d lie if I say I didn’t,” he admits quietly, as if he does not want anyone else to hear. “The monastery brings back … memories.” He pauses. Alois, Rhea, Leonie, his wife – they all tie together in what can only be an unimaginable pain of a life lived over twenty years ago that ended abruptly one night. There is sadness to him, inside these walls.

“Did you like being a mercenary?” The silence lasts long enough that he thinks he might have stepped right into all the things they do not speak of: they do not speak of the woman who died giving birth to him, they do not speak of his strangeness, they do not speak of age. They do not speak of matters neither of them has answers to.

“You miss it, don’t you, kid?” he says and Byleth nods his head. He does. He does so very much.

“Well, I was a mercenary long before I became a knight,” Jeralt continues, “and I can’t say I missed the Church. I enjoyed the freedom of not associating with it, and I enjoyed traveling with all of you.” A rough sound comes from his throat. It would have been a laugh, on a more joyous occasion. “Though, I can’t say I miss putting up with those who hire us.” His tone turns serious and he looks at him – Byleth watches his face grow soft, and he knows that his father loves him, and he wishes he could say he knew what it felt like, being loved, but there is no heart beating in his chest, and he only knows that the emptiness feels warmer still. “I didn’t regret my decision.”

“I know,” he says, averting his gaze. He cannot show him that he loves him; he would like to, but all he knows is to make sure they come back from a battle alive and now, he can’t even do that.

The night crawls on, his favorite time of the day.

“When Rhea sends you back out there,” he says, “please make sure you get back.” The thought of losing him makes his throat tight.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, all the assurance he needs.

Sometimes, he still dreams of a woman who looks like the archbishop killing a man he does not recognize, and, sometimes, he still hears the girl with the same name as the goddess speak to him, and both leave him with a sense of dread and panic, which he drowns by asking Jeritza for more instructions.

They all praise him for his diligence. No one knows how bad it is. He wants out, he wants to get away, he wants to leave it all behind. He is suffocating. His father understands.

Oddly enough, he gets the impression that Jeritza understands, too, in a broader sense of the word; they never quite cross swords, but the man once makes a commend – he barely remembers it, something about demons and blades – that convinces Byleth that he does hide more than half his face under that mask.

During one conversation with Leonie, she accuses him of not appreciating his father enough and he can only stare blankly, because he knows how right she is and he hates it; he can tell that she admires him, but when he looks for such feelings in himself, he stumbles upon emptiness again.

Perhaps he shows love differently, _perhaps_ , but he still does not know what it feels like and he is too scared to ask.

He likes being the Ashen Demon more than being the Professor; too much rests upon his shoulders, and slaughter is the last thing he should do, but it seems that all his answers lie there, on the battlefield, stained with blood and buried under corpses. The Ashen Demon is allowed to indulge in it, it is allowed to be far from human, it is allowed to be strange and blank and without emotions.

The Professor, on the other hand, must guide his students. Byleth does not know who he is anymore.

The assassination plot leads them to the Holy Mausoleum, a place where his skin prickles and a cold shudder passes down his spine.

From the entrance, he spots the Death Knight. Edelgard advises them all to stay away and, being reasonable, he should, and yet he finds himself intrigued and yearning for a taste of true battle.

Soon, he stands in front of him; all black and spiked armor, horned helmet, a black steed and a terrifying scythe. For a fraction of a second, his red eyes bore into him and Byleth breathes, blood boiling – he dodges a swing, his blade cannot make a dent, and so he retreats. The knight does not follow him. Yet, he watches him, as they advance, just to be on the safe side, he tells himself, despite knowing better: there is the thrill in challenging him again, the Ashen Demon clawing against his chest. It has laid dormant for nearly three moons now, and he cannot afford carelessness.

When he holds the Sword of the Creator in his hands, his determination wavers. Everything else blurs for a moment; inside his head, there is a voice screaming for him to fight, to stand onto the battlefield, a wall that cannot be moved, while death piles around him, fire dancing across his hands.

But, alas, he does not.

He sleeps next to the Sword that night, wondering if Rhea will kill him too, like she kills Nemesis whenever he closes his eyes. After all, they wield the same weapon. After all, he has heard that cruel chill in her voice.

In his dream, he lays on cold ground, dark all around him, curled up like a little child which doesn’t want to be dragged from a fleeting dream, reaching out towards it, but it flutters out of reach. Byleth barely remembers his childhood days: being carried around and looking at the world, trees and grass and mud, burying his hands in the mane of his father’s horse, seeing kids his age play, always the watcher, always the outsider.

He blinks, half-expecting the dream to fade away. Maybe it has. Maybe it has not.

Sothis lays next to him, peacefully asleep, and yet, there is this strange feeling in his stomach; something is wrong with her.

He hesitates, and reaches out, wondering what will happen if he touches her. Nothing. Except that, when he blinks again, there is only the Sword of the Creator next to him. He hooks his finger around the hole in the hilt.

He is sick of dreaming.

Jeralt stands with him by his mother’s grave. Byleth wishes he could feel something; he hasn’t known the woman for more than nine months and, while he is grateful that she has carried him, he cannot help but wonder what it all would be like if he had never been born.

He nods his head, bites his tongue, _what does it feel like to love someone_ , regret burning in his throat and numbing his mouth. Death is nothing new. Feeling sorry about someone’s demise is.

Gently, he reaches out and touches the ring. Cold. He imagines her smile and his father’s smile, he imagines their laughter and warmth, he imagines how happy they must have been – his mind stays blank.

“I wish you could have had more time with her,” he says then, barely a whisper.

His father nods, shoulders sinking as if his weight is crushing him. Is that all there is to love – eventually watching the one person you treasure above all else die? What a cruel emotion.

He spends the following weeks in his usual way: talking to his students, teaching, making his rounds every Sunday, eating, fishing, gardening, planning his lectures, auxiliary battles, the highlight being the sessions with Jeritza, since they make him forget about everything else swimming around his head.

The combat instructor watches him wield the Sword of the Creator in awe, and perhaps there is a selfish desire to it; he has yet to ask him about a duel. And, he fears, that, when he does, he will have to be cautious of more than the other man’s blade, which he holds with incredible strength and skill. The Ashen Demon has become an unsteady thing, always trickling in and out of his mind, latching onto him whenever he fights.

Another quiet night. This time, he is alone, sitting upon the very same bench and watching the stars, his father on another mission.

Sleeping would be the smarter choice, as tomorrow morning will not be any better one way or another, but whenever he tries, he dreams, and they’re all nightmares now. Seeing the same thing a thousand times only makes it worse. Where he used to wake up slightly unsettled, he finds himself covered in cold sweat these days, kicking, throat raw. If anyone hears him scream, they do not tell.

The mug in his hands has long lost its warmth and he has to, inevitably, think back to the conversation with Jeralt – he misses his old life, being out there, sleeping under the sky, listening to the others tell their stories, talk about their wives and husbands and children. They all have so bright and brilliant, all so _lively_ , lives, and he could nearly pretend to be a part of them. And they never cared if he was a little strange or a little violent. They were just … there and accepted him – he does not blame his students or anyone else here, because he has gotten himself into his mess, and ever since meeting Rhea, he hides parts of himself away to escape her judgment.

He leans back, the walls of the monastery stand tall and dark around him, and, if he closes his eyes, he can nearly forget that he is here.

Silent steps wake him from a light sleep. He opens his eyes.

Jeritza hurries down the path, he intends to call out, and if it were not night and if he did not see his white-knuckled grip on his sword. No mask obscures his – admittedly – handsome face, distorted by a seething-hot anger, so Byleth stays silent and watches him vanish.

The Ashen Demon hums.

They are sent to deal with Miklan Gautier, and he has to swallow the thrill of battle until he chokes on it, because the Demon has no place here, it cannot have one; he cares about his students in a way that does not allow him to be anyone but the Professor.

Yet, with the Sword of the Creator in his hands, it is hard not to lose sight of it; its ominous red glow reminds him of blood, and its weight spurs him closer and closer to the edge of composure. It is an omen of death in his hands.

The monster howls; Sothis’ voice rings in the back of his mind as his stomach twists and his pulse rises. (Briefly, he imagines, the Sword will swallow him whole, too, and turn him into the beast he truly is.)

Looking at the lifeless body and the lance, all that remains, he wonders, will there be a day where it is his body and his weapon?

He returns the relic and is about to fall back into his blissful routine when he learns of Flayn’s disappearance.

And, so, his world comes tumbling down. Together with his class, he sets out to investigate – the trail leads him all over monastery grounds. He speaks to Felix; something in his chest screws up when he mentions Jeritza. It might be true, he has not paid enough attention to notice, and, yet … it would come as no surprise. It is selfish to hope it is another false lead, because his sanity does not matter here: he has been crumbling for a long time now, burying it under different lies to make him feel better. It is simply a question of time until it slips away completely.

He speaks to Catherine, too, wondering if it might just be a misunderstanding of sorts. Maybe. Maybe the truth is dangling in front of his face, daring him to grasp it, but he does not, too scared of what might become of him. Such a stupid thing to worry about, when the life of an innocent girl is at stake. Still, his throat grows tight and his chest heavy, thinking about losing the one person who can truly understand him. (Such a ridiculous thing, too, they have hardly exchanged a dozen personal words, and yet-)

By the time he finds his father, a strange kind of panic fills him. He wants to laugh; he cannot make a sound. It must be true, in light of the incident from a few nights ago.

Hubert awaits him at the path that leads to Jeritza’s room. The wrought iron gate looms over him, ivy covering it. The Ashen Demon is clawing at its constraints. Ultimately, above all else, it just wants to _fight_.

Byleth pushes open the gate.

They climb down the passageway, where two girls turn up.

His pulse settles for a steady rhythm, when the Death Knight approaches, and he eases his shoulders; he cannot quite see Jeritza under all that armor, but no one quite sees the Ashen Demon in him, too.

 _This dance of damnation sounds nice_ , it’s what the last few moons have felt like; he is fighting, dooming himself to bend and break himself into someone he is not and cannot be for extended periods of time, but he does it anyway, because he has never learned how to refuse. Besides, going back was easier when he had no bonds to keep him.

And, so, they dance the only dance they know – his Sword against his scythe, both so close to damaging each other but they only so much scratch at their defenses. He does see Jeritza in that, in a way, but all too soon the Demon claws its way back to the surface when he suffers a harsh blow to his shoulder, blood soaking his clothes and falling to the ground.

He retreats, a strange way to say goodbye, and yet, he cannot shake the feeling that they will cross paths again.

Things return to normal then, as far as they can. For him, they have not. It is difficult to pick up after himself – he barely knew the man, and yet his absence is akin to a glaring hole in the middle of the monastery.

The bitter taste barely settles long enough to talk to his father, dread curling like a serpent in the pit of his stomach. He would like to go with him, because there is yet someone to be found to beat the Ashen Demon in battle, but he cannot, so he stares at him for a long moment, forcing words from his throat.

“Please don’t die.”

Jeralt manages half a smile. “Like I said,” he repeats. “Not very likely.” A heavy hand lays on his shoulder, and he breathes easier. A hesitant smile manages to find its way onto his face, and his father beams in a way only he can.

Maybe he does not know how love feels like because he has always been loved. Maybe he has just always loved his dad.

After the fishing tournament, he bounces around the other professors, not sure what skill to work on next; he has a weird feeling about Monica and how she is practically glued to Edelgard. Perhaps it is not his place to say anything, yet-

He crosses paths with Shamir, nodding politely. She stops him.

“Is something the matter?” His voice is steady, despite his pulse racing; her gaze bores deep. It is not anger, no; she is calculating, measuring him. Like a threat.

“A traveling merchant saw you cross the marketplace today and took off screaming,” she says. Blunt. He’d appreciate it more if it didn’t mean that she was more likely to see right through him. “So, I looked into your past as the Ashen Demon.”

“Yes?” Byleth stares blankly. What else is he supposed to say? He will not lie. The beast is not gone, not out of his chest, not out of his head. It lingers, bored by the lack of fodder for its nature. Perhaps he doesn’t mind.

She crosses her arms.

“I do not intend to hurt anyone,” he says then, slowly. “Especially not my students. If you’ve got other concerns, you should take it up with Rhea.”

“No need,” she replies, still watching him, like a hunter would watch its prey. “I’ll take your word for it.” She pauses. “Though, I might watch you.”

“That’s quite alright,” he answers. It might be easier, to have someone keep an eye on him, while he feels like falling apart. (And, if he does indeed lose himself, she might-)

“Would you mind lending a hand beyond that?” he questions, and she agrees; she has been a mercenary, too.

The Battle of the Eagle and Lion comes and goes; his students emerge victorious. Byleth is busy moving on with his new routine, fearing that he might misplace part of himself if he does not. He sleeps less and trains more, appreciating Shamir’s gaze more than once, since it reminds him that he is the Professor now, and that the Ashen Demon has no place here. (And, still, the hunger grows, he yearns for battle, he cannot simply let go of the Sword of the Creator anymore, it is like it whispers back to him about all the things Nemesis has done holding it and it does not make him look like a good man.)

His conversations with Sothis draw short, there is not much they have to say to each other, her memories do not return, not even in the Red Canyon, and he finds it increasingly difficult to answer her. Guilt plagues him.

The end of the next moon comes, Remire happens, and while he is glad to fight by his father’s side again, he would have wished for better circumstances.

Another betrayal, even though this one does not hit him hard; the Flame Emperor stirs a strange thought inside of him.

“You’ve changed,” Jeralt says. “You’ve been angry since we first arrived here.” He shakes his head as he continues.

“I’m sorry,” he says simply, the smoke and the smell of death lingering in his nose. “That I couldn’t show you any emotions sooner.”

“Hey. Don’t worry about it, kid.” He smiles, like he always smiles, wisdom of a thousand years.

“No,” he replies and his voice strains, “I’m sorry, dad. I always wanted to show you that I love you but-”

“What are you talking about?” he asks with a small chuckle. “I know you do.” With that, he sets his hand on his shoulder again, and Byleth, for the very first time in his life, beams at him. He pretends not to notice that his father’s eyes have turned wet when they make their way back to everyone else.

He runs into Alois a week before the White Heron Cup. They talk; he has never truly thought to ask and even now he isn’t sure whether he should – it is like interacting with Leonie, trying to find a common ground on his father with someone he hardly knows, but the knight doesn’t seem to hold grudges.

“Siblings?” he echoes and tilts his head. He has never wanted a sibling before but the longer he thinks about it, the more he finds comfort in it. “I’d like that.”

Byleth asks for his assistance, too, and he agrees.

Later, after his house has won the Cup as well, he makes his way to the Goddess Tower, struck by loneliness. Fate is such a fickle thing, used to bind people who do not dare to make their own decisions. Demons have no need for it.

So, he stands here alone, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. What does it matter where he goes? It is all his decision. And he decides to leave, once this year ends. Then he has fulfilled his duty, at least.

Demonic beasts attack the chapel. It’s only downhill from there.

The fight is not the problem, despite the foul smell. It suffocates him, his stomach twists. The feeling worsens when Monica appears, but he is not trying to judge her unfairly-

Perhaps he has been right all along.

Byleth watches his father die.

Again.

And again.

And again, because he cannot believe it.

And again, because he must try.

And again, because he does not want to live in a world without him.

And then, he holds him, throat tight, mute, pulse all over the place, but his chest is so terribly empty – such a different kind than usual.

He cries. Goddess, he cries. Until his eyes hurt and his face aches and he cannot breathe, until he thinks he might drown. He wants to. He has never told him he loved him, never quite shown it, Leonie’s words ring in his ears and he hates how right she has been.

The rain falls down on him, soaking him, but he has grown numb to the world, except for his father’s body in his hands, so utterly lifeless. He wants to scream and rage and take revenge. The Sword lays far behind him. It is probably for the best.

An eternity passes.

“Professor-” Edelgard says but they have stopped speaking the same language. He does not understand. Her words are without meaning.

“Hey, there,” Alois says and kneels next to him. He might have been crying, too. “Let’s get him out of here, alright?”

Only when his horse, Captain, nudges him, Byleth breaks out of his state. Functioning. All he has to do is function. Through the rain, under all these eyes, up to his quarters, reading his diary, letters blurring, Sothis’ voice like a dagger.

“There is no such thing as fate,” he mutters hoarsely, “demons need no fate.”

She does not reply. At least, they share the goal of vengeance. His will come bloody and deadly. Swiftly. Maybe.

Alois shakes him out of it, again.

“I do,” he replies, clutching the dairy in his hands. “I wish I could have-” What does he wish for? So many things. He settles for one. “I wish I could have told him, he was the most important person in my world, too.”

“I’m sure he knew that,” the knights say and smiles a sad smile.

“Thanks,” he answers and nods his head; he cannot bear to look at him. He cannot bear to look at anyone.

Time becomes impossible to grasp. Days and nights blur as he lays on his bed and stares at the wall, watching the sun fall and rise all the same. He holds the Sword of the Creator close. He holds his father’s diary. He does not eat. Does not drink. Does not speak. Sothis’ words glide off him, he barely hears the knocks on his door, he does not recall their words.

Dead. That is what it feels like. Dead. His heart still does not beat and he cannot will it to do so; useless, stupid, traitorous thing. Why does it not beat? Why does he still not feel anything at all?

There is anger and a thirst, yes, but, mostly, there is this great sea of nothing.

His pillow soaks up his tears. His body trembles. His mind fills with so many thoughts, so many questions.

When he eventually gets up, nothing matters anymore. They all know by now, do they? He does not want to talk about it. He does not want to do anything anymore.

He returns to his father’s office, where he meets Edelgard – all he can do is nod and swallow around the lump in his throat.

The monastery is not the same. He sneaks around, avoiding conversations, he barely responds, he ducks his head between his shoulders. He trains a lot, without anyone instructing him, in a far corner of the courtyard, where he swings and swings and swings his sword, well aware of Shamir’s fleeting gaze. Alois is also watching him, Leonie tries to talk to him, Edelgard briefly joins him. (One of the dummies cracks under the force of the dull blade, and he looks at it, broken beyond repair, in shame.)

Then, he is back in the classroom on Monday. They have set up a bit of food and drink and look at him – sorrow and pity and understanding. He stares and sits; the tremble starts in his hands as he looks away, the tears fall.

He is emerged in hugs; he thinks he thanks them, at some point, but it takes a while until he can compose himself. They rearrange the tables and eat and drink and talk; he is but a bystander, easing his mind by watching them slowly return to their usual, cheerful selves.

He must protect them. That is his duty.

Shamir and Alois knock before they enter, briefly startled by the scene. Silence.

“No one has to know,” the mercenary says then and shrugs her shoulders, so they are invited to join in.

Eventually, the lectures resume, slower than normally, and they do not mention how his voice leaves him occasionally or how his eyes flood randomly. It is hard talking about the art of mounted combat these days.

With Edelgard, he confronts Rhea, coaxing the order out of her.

They enter the Sealed Forest and he cuts through his enemies like nothing, the Ashen Demon bursts out of his chest. He does not restrain it.

Kronya falls to his blade. Then, darkness. And Sothis.

The anger burns in his throat, his blood boils, it sticks to his hands, covering his clothes, demon through and through. Funny, to think that he has harbored a goddess for all his life. Funnier still that she is the reason that he has never cried or laughed as a child. He does not blame her; she did not choose this. But neither has he.

“There is no such thing as fate,” he tells her and shakes his head.

“Then what is it?” she asks. In another time, she would have demanded; now, there is only sadness.

“I … don’t know,” he admits. “But I am glad that I have come to know you. And I am glad that you are willing to do this for me.”

She simply smiles.

Byleth thinks about warning her, about the demon, but, if she does know his heart, he has no need to – she does not mind, then.

“What will you do?”

 _I will end_ , he thinks, _eventually, as all life ceases to exist. But I will end far from here, far from now_.

He cuts through the darkness, he claws his way out of it, power rushing through him. Past that, it is all a blur. He collapses, his hunger stilled.

A song, familiar and yet foreign. Rhea. Words that make no sense to him, words that hold no meaning.

He wakes eventually, in his own bed. How long? A different hair and eye color greet him in the mirror. A new power. Not quite himself. Right.

Another routine interrupted, this one barely set. Will he ever find one? He wonders. Once he enters the world again as mercenary, perhaps. But can he still do that, after everything that has happened? He knows he cannot stay, he knows he cannot hold Rhea’s gaze any longer.

Byleth travels to the Empire with Edelgard, because it feels right, and because, admittedly, he does not think much of it, until he sets foot into the throne room.

Ah. So, a greater purpose must be at play here. Everyone only says half of what they mean.

It is at the Holy Tomb that it is revealed; he sits on the throne, nothingness thrumming in his chest; he stands with the Empire; he falls for the Empire. ( _No, that must not be the end_ – he has seen Jeritza on the battlefield, or the Death Knight, and there is a fickle sense of hope in his chest that he clings to. Perhaps, there is someone else in this world who understands him, and his heart beats so strangely at the thought. That it beats at all-)

* * *

Is this what being dead is like? For the most part, it is no different to sleeping – drifting in and out of consciousness, faded dreams occupying his mind, no more nightmares of Rhea and Nemesis, only the archbishop, a dragon, swallowing him, he dreams of teaching again, he dreams of his father, Alois, Shamir, his students, he dreams of training with Jeritza and he dreams of fighting with the Death Knight, of his days as Ashen Demon and his days as Professor and his days as neither.

There is a voice in his head, familiar, foreign – it belongs to a little girl. No. She’s more than that. What is she saying?

He drags himself from his slumber, his hands closed around the hilt of the Sword that has laid on his chest. Nearly as if he has been buried with it.

A face greets him. Blacked ruins. Smoke and blood curl in the air, death latches onto him like an old friend. It reminds him of … Remire.

His clothes are soaked, he is freezing, all his limbs are numb. But he is alive.

“Five years?” he asks, throat raw and voice meaningless; he doesn’t doubt it. He wouldn’t have doubted it if an eternity had passed.

“I’ve hit more than my head,” he muses with half a smile that cracks open his dry skin.

Byleth marches for the monastery, with no other place to go; he wanted to travel, to see the world again, but he did not see them graduate and he did not fulfill his duty, so all he can do is to make sure they survive, at the very least. Enough lives have been lost.

He walks up the winding paths carved into a steep hill, taking in his surroundings. Not quite as he remembers them; signs of war scattered through the lands, sending a thrill down his spine, igniting a strange sense of excitement.

Guards are stationed at the gate. They will not let them enter, until they see his weapon, and he strolls past them as they fumble for words.

All he says to Edelgard is, “I’m sorry,” because he truly is.

Byleth stands with the Empire once more. He does not intend to fall, this time.

It is good to see them all again, even in the middle of a war, and wars are not without consequences. And … yet. The monastery looks the same, safe for some minor damages, much emptier than it has been before, new faces filling new corners.

He makes his usual round, as if he is still who he was five years prior – so utterly ridiculous. Everything has changed but he is stuck in his old ways, like he has been forgotten when the world kept turning. Detached. Yes. He is detached from it, floating down the river of fleeting time, chasing after something he can never have.

He talks to his students, who are not his students anymore but soldiers, he talks to Alois and Shamir; they’ve all grown so much. Pride and sorrow mix in his chest. Because – they needed him. And he was not there.

Jeritza awaits him at the Training Grounds. He freezes, briefly, and the nods; their relationship continues. Training, never quite sparring, never quite exchanging more than a dozen personal words.

Yet, they grow closer, as if something holds them in its grasp, slowly stealing the air to breathe as it presses them together, trying to crush them. Whenever Byleth looks at him, his chest grows tight and his throat turns raw, his heart suddenly drums behind his ribs (he is still not used to how it beats at all). Words become difficult, so they speak the language of violence instead.

They make quite a pair on the battlefield, the Death Knight and the Ashen Demon. In war, no one truly cares about the blood they spill or the deaths they bring; he still makes a point of trying not to let his students see, for they still call him ‘Professor’ and look up to him like the lost kids they are.

When he learns of his appreciation for sweets, he makes a point of inviting him to lunch, whenever the occasion arises; he invites him for a cup of sweet tea, he hands him sweet treats bought from the few merchants who visit. They exchange words of gratitude, still treading ever so carefully; they know their peace is built upon melting ice.

At one point, Jeritza tells him that he feels oddly when he looks at him, and Byleth tried not to let it get to him (but it does, regardless, and his heart flutters in his chest).

Another night comes, where he sits outside, on the railing of a balcony. Under him, several dozen feet of pure darkness and, somewhere, the ground. He cannot bear the benches anymore.

It is comforting, to know that the world is out there, even though he does not see it.

The stars have not changed, still the same he has looked at with his father, still the same he has looked at with the Blade Breakers. Since then, he has lived a lifetime. A lifetime of failures. He died, he abandoned his students, he made fruitless efforts to undo the damage of war. He failed, at the only thing he swore to do after Jeralt died, and he cannot turn back the hands of time. (He’s tried, goddess, he’s tried a thousand times.)

All he has done seems to meaningless. If he has ever made an impact on these kids, it has been long washed away by the murders they have had to commit; they still respect him and seem easier in their skin around him, but he knows what fighting does.

He is the Ashen Demon. They’ve caught glimpse of it and it is only due to the circumstances that they do not speak of it; it is in the way they look at him after battle, pale hair stained red and skin covered in it, ankle-deep in dead bodies. It is what he does best. Perhaps they think him simply a victim, perhaps they do not know that he is a monster in human disguise. He lets them believe it, a little lie.

Cool air settles in his chest, aching, the stone is rough under his hands and maybe he ought to get up soon, but he likes the quiet and he likes the night and he likes being alone. (When he sleeps, nightmares torment him; it has only gotten worse. He suspects Sothis’ fragmented memories have fused with his own.)

Steps approach, loud as thunder. The monastery is much quieter than it used to be. He looks.

Jeritza stops just a few steps away, darkness concealing him. “I wanted to speak to you,” he says, strained, as if he is forcing out words he does not mean.

“I’m right here,” Byleth replies, pretending that his heart doesn’t set up an unsteady rhythm. It staggers in the following quiet, as he waits for a reply, hoping to hear something else than his own blood rushing through his veins.

The air grows tense and sparse; the hairs on his neck stand up, a tremble goes through his limbs. Ah. It’s been a while. (He has never talked to the Death Knight away from the battlefield, as he makes a bad partner for conversation.)

He turns around and plants his feet firmly on the ground, waiting. His pulse quickens, while he considers his options. For his walks, he never carries a weapon, even his dagger is left in his room. Fear is the last thing on his mind, though.

A second passes, lasting barely longer than one of his strange heartbeats. Jeritza lunges at him, sword drawn.

He dodges, muscles tense, mind racing. What does he do – disarm him? Probably. Fighting is no option, unarmed as he is and well aware that he might succumb to his own demons if he were to try.

He lashes out again. So fast. Silver blade barely inches from him, trembling in the air.

Byleth has come up short on space – the railing presses painfully into his back. The door is too far away. Maybe, next time, he should stay clear of balconies.

His breath shudders in his throat, heart beating against his ribs. It is far from fear, for he has looked into death’s face often enough; Jeritza is not death. Pale like it, but he finds that it’s a nice color.

 _Oh_.

“No,” he mutters, movements forced and unnatural as he steps away. For a moment, he scowls, anger distorting his face.

He does not dare speaking just yet. So unfamiliar, the feeling that is not the thrill of battle, and so strange that it is only now that he knows it.

“You are … not scared,” the man says then, words falling from his mouth like rocks.

“No,” he answers.

“Why?” It’s so quiet, he barely hears it at all.

There are a thousand words to say, so many possible answers, so many things to say that make him look like the man he wants to be, but, ultimately, the truth is, they are the same and there is nothing about him that could scare him. “When I was a mercenary,” he begins, “I was known as the Ashen Demon.”

“Ah.” A pause. A tentative truce.

“Let us speak more about it another time,” Byleth says into the night, a fiery turmoil in his chest.

“Agreed,” Jeritza answers and his hurried steps announce his leave.

The next morning, back in his room, he discovers a cut on the side of his neck, deep red against his pale skin. So, he was not fast enough after all.

Edelgard comments on it, during a strategy meeting entailing only a handful of people, and all he says is, “oh, I must have scratched myself,” which probably sounds as convincing as he feels, which is to say, not at all. Her eyes narrow, she pulls him aside after, working up a lecture under her carefully calmed interior.

He forces down a twitch of his lips. She’s like a little sister. A terrifying little sister who would have his head – figuratively speaking, for now – if she knew half the things he kept from her.

“That’s not a scratch,” she says.

“It’s not,” he admits and swallows. There is no point in lying. “It happened during training with Jeritza. I underestimated how fast the swing would come down. Please. It was an accident.” A half-lie, then. He does know it’s wrong, of course, but it gets lonely, and he has heard her too often muttering about how she cannot quite trust the Death Knight to follow her orders to know what she would do.

Her expression changes, into something not quite readable, hair snow-white like she has already lived two centuries. “Very well,” she says and holds her head high, “I’ll take her word for it.”

Byleth dreads what might come out of it, if she were to discover the truth.

He spends his afternoon in the garden, idly browsing through a book borrowed from the library as he sips tea, which has long gone cold. The sun soaks his clothes, drenching them in warmth, and he sympathizes with the dozen cats around the monastery, lazily stretching, wandering from one comfortable spot to the next.

A shadow appears, much darker than the clouds that pass the sky occasionally. And it stands still, too.

He meets Jeritza’s gaze; he is not angry, no, but something twists his face, and Byleth supposes he owes him and explanation or two – he wants to be honest, but truth is a fickle thing. Does it hold any meaning at all? What does it change that he is part demon, part divine, when he is still so utterly mortal?

“Why did you lie?”

Silently, he closes the book and places it on the table.

“Would you rather I hadn’t?”

“No,” he admits, and Byleth invites him to join with a gesture. He sits, does not seem to know what to do with his limbs outside of battle.

“You once mentioned an understanding you had with the emperor,” he says, “I did not want to cause trouble.”

His expression softens, if only for a moment. “Have you determined me a friend then?” he asks. “Or did you do it because you’re the Ashen Demon?”

 _Both_ , he wants to say, but they still hold onto their fragile peace, as if it changes anything. They can play pretend all they like, they cannot erase their demons. It is what has ultimately brought them here.

“To a degree, yes,” he answers and holds his cup with both hands. “As a child, I made no sound. Never laughed or cried, never felt a thing. The Ashen Demon is … just that. The part of me that does not understand, that does not feel, that does not know peace or mercy, only his blade and his enemies’ corpses.” Byleth cannot say what he has expected; it surely hasn’t been awe, and, yet, there it is, in these dark-blue eyes that look at him like he has just unraveled the secrets of the world to him. Maybe he has, in the strangest of ways.

“So you are … like me.”

“Yes,” he answers. Something tugs up one corner of his mouth. Jeritza does not quite return it.

“If you had told the truth,” he says then, words heavy, “it would have become difficult to train or talk to you.”

He nods. Such a selfish reason to lie, he is shaping to become a selfish man.

“She treasures you,” he continues. “The emperor.”

“I guided her, for a year,” Byleth replies. “It’s different now. She is not the same girl anymore.” He twists the cup between his fingers. Guilty. Yes. He is so very guilty of failing them all. They held him high and he let them all fall; Alois hides it behind bad jokes but he saw his shattered heart, Shamir hides it behind her stern expression but he heard her breathe a sigh of relief, his students greeted him eagerly, and, for a moment, it all seemed to be just like it was five years ago. Now, when he looks at them, their gazes have grown hard and bitter.

“Still.”

“Still,” he agrees as they lapse into silence.

“Tell me,” Jeritza says then, hoarsely, “about the Ashen Demon.”

A certain smile cuts through his face. A demon’s smile. And, so, he tells him, of all the bloodshed and murderer, of all the death, of all the fights, all the swings of his blade, all that has stained his hands, all while he felt the thrill in his bones and all while the excitement rattled him, all while he stood there on the front lines, alone.

Their conversation turns to more recent battle, where they have stood on the front lines together. Jeritza is in awe about his technique and the Sword of the Creator, the blade that glows as red as blood and feels like bones in his hands, and Byleth asks about the Scythe of Sariel, pitch-black and dooming for anyone who finds themselves at the sharp end of it.

They talk well into the night. Anyone who might have bothered them decides to stay clear, due to their choice of topic, until there is no one left but them. Slowly, they trace the paths back to where the quarters lay, lazily setting one foot in front of the other, as they do not want their conversation to end.

His breath hitches in his throat; there always has been as much as a sword’s length between them, as if to ensure that they keep themselves in check, but, now, they walk next to each other like there is nothing to be worried about.

“Would you mind training with me tomorrow?

He does not.

It’s his new routine, teaching and training with Jeritza, inviting him for tea and lunch, even if they barely talk on some days, but he gets out of bed easier and the dreams fade; he feels, in a way, like growing up, like growing into an actual person and leaving everything else behind.

The Ashen Demon calms, no longer breaking out of him during the night, co-existing with him.

However, one night right before a mission proves him a fool, to have thought that his worries would dissolve so easily: this time, in his dream, he stands in Nemesis’ place. And he fights, like he does, with the growing feeling of panic of what is to come as there is no changing it.

He lays waste to the battlefield so effortlessly, he becomes drunk on the power, takes it in and thrives off it like only a beast can; the Sword’s glow provides enough light in the dark. It lashes out against church soldiers, murders maybe a hundred of them at once. All around him, death and destruction, blood and mud mix under his boots.

He looks at himself and realizes that he does not play the role of the King of Liberation, he plays himself – Byleth. Familiar faces are sown throughout enemy ranks: students and staff alike, pleading with him, screaming. Seteth’s yells ring especially loud over the battlefield.

Flayn stumbles, robes turned red. Demons have no compassion, thus, he does not care. But, deep down, the Professor feels sorry, because he has taught that cheerful little girl and he has lost family, too.

But the Demon simply lashes out, again and again and again until only strangers are left, hidden beneath helmets, and all traces of humanity inside of him have been washed away. It is how wars go. It is how this one will go.

Rhea – not Seiros, no, it is Rhea, who will slay him in this dream – stands in front of her army, like a statue, as he cuts down Catherine and her guards.

She leaps at him with a scream that barely sounds human, much more warrior than he thought her to be; they fight a fated battle. A hysteric laugh bubbles in his throat. Demons have no fate. And, yet, every time, he is lead back here, to this very moment.

The archbishop wrings the Sword of his hands. Her punches hit hard, his nose breaks. “Do you remember the Holy Mausoleum?” she screams, dagger gleaming in the early morning light.

He wakes when she stabs him, a hand pressed to his chest in which his heart beats like thunder. Just another nightmare and, yet, so very real, so very close to reality.

His gaze glides to the Sword of the Creator, leaning against his desk, without a Crest stone. He cannot bear touching it.

They ride at dawn, Jeritza and him, under Edelgard’s and Hubert’s stern gazes, while the rest of the monastery sleeps – they do not send them without concerns.

Utter silence covers them. Dark rain clouds loom on the horizon, as if they have anticipated his change of mood and the itch under his skin, the Ashen Demon clamoring behind his ribs to be let out. And, while Byleth does not mind, he minds that dream. He has never believed in fate, for people like him have none, but the more he struggles, the more he finds himself entangled in bonds that seem, for a lack of better words, _fated_. A part of him wants to laugh, since he has fought so hard against this, but he cannot. The laugh dies in his throat. It is true; fate has caught him and wrapped him up, dangling his own death right in front of his eyes.

Jeritza keeps glancing at him every so often like he could just disappear into thin air. He might. He feels unsteady.

No need for words; they accomplish their mission. Death and demons go hand-in-hand, after all.

“Something troubles you,” he says to him when they decide to rest.

Byleth nods, silently, considering what to tell him – for all that matters, it might just be another nightmare. But he is scared of falling like Nemesis once did: He is scared of falling to Rhea. If he had one wish left, he would wish to die by another hand.

“Do you believe in fate?” he asks, absent-mindedly petting his horse that it nibbles away at the grass to their feet. Captain has been around for as long as he remembers.

Much to his surprise, the other man neither denies nor confirms it right away.

“I can see that our encounter was fated to happen,” he replies eventually. The way in which he says it nearly does him in the gentlest sense of it; all his life he has went without anyone truly understanding him and, now, he has met the one person who does.

“I see,” Byleth says and swallows, voice growing raw in his throat. He means to continue, to tell him about his dream and the fate that he does not want, but he finds himself entrapped in something else – a feeling that makes his heartbeat stutter and flutter, a feeling that creeps up on him in the strangest of moments and sinks its teeth into his flesh like a hungry beast. Such a terrible, terrible affliction. He would not trade the world for it.

“Ever since I saw you in the Holy Mausoleum, I’ve been thinking …”

“Why was I chosen?” he echoes.

Doubt strikes him in the chest; perhaps this is less about them, and more about the Death Knight and the Ashen Demon, who only know one thing. (But, he supposes, falling to that man and his Scythe would be preferable.)

“All I truly need is you,” he says now, and Byleth is not even sure if his head is capable of understanding the meaning of it, “you, and nothing else.” Oh, to be not tangled up in fate and its claws, to be free and not caught in war – it might be nice, to have this in another time and place, when they will not carry on like they do in fairy tales in this life.

“I-” His voice gives in; he cannot speak those accursed words, for they might be too damning, “it feels like you like me.”

“Perhaps that is true, viewed in a certain light.”

Byleth wishes his heart would stop beating. He’s growing dizzy.

“I am fond of you, too,” he replies.

The silence between them is different now, strangely vulnerable as if they have bared their weak points. Perhaps they have, perhaps that is the true tragedy of it all, that the two of them, ultimately, only strive for battle and can never lay down their weapons.

Day has turned to night from clouds eating up the light. The ground has turned wet, which slows them down until they barely make any progress. Rain lingers in the air, tingling with the tension of an approaching thunderstorm.

He watches the sky warily – a moment too long; the earth gives in under Captain’s hooves and he falls into panic.

“Easy,” he muses, tightening his grip on the reins, thighs pressed to the firm body. He steps out of the hole that must have been some animal’s burrow, and walks, calming down. Something is off.

Byleth slides out of the saddle, mud splashing to his feet. Captain drags one of his front legs, flinching away when he reaches for it.

“It’s just me,” he mutters; animals are said to be more perceptive, so perhaps he knows of his second nature, but they’ve known each other for over twenty years at this point, so he eventually relents.

The lower part of his leg burns up under his touch. The area is already swelling. Not good.

Thunder rolls in the distance.

Jeritza halts his steed next to him; he looks terrifying, all high on his black horse in his armor, but he has come to appreciate it.

“He must have sprained his leg,” he explains and scowls at the collapsed burrow. “Might be something minor, but he still needs rest.”

“We won’t make it back in time,” the man concludes.

“No,” he agrees. “We’ll get caught up in the rain, too.”

“There was an abandoned village back the way we came,” Jeritza says. He remembers; it’s going to make them incredibly late. Edelgard will not be pleased, but it cannot be avoided at this point, and he’d rather not lose Captain before it’s inevitable. (He has waited for him, after all.)

Byleth takes the reins and resigns himself to do his share of walking.

“What are you doing?” Jeritza asks with a scoff, and he only understands when he extends a hand, offering to pull him up. Oh. _Oh_.

He accepts, of course, his heart stuttering in his chest like it has just learned how to beat.

Captain follows. Byleth watches him in worry; he’s old, yes, he must be nearing thirty, after all, but age has never seemed to have bothered him, much like with his father. Now, however, he can see it all over him – his white coat has grown rough and his eyes have sunken, he suddenly looks ancient, when he has looked perfectly fine this morning.

They make it back to the village; the high heavens break open, rain pours down mercilessly, soaking them to the very bone.

He slides out from behind Jeritza and coaxes his horse to last few feet into what must have been a stable once, before war came through. It is mostly untouched, compared to the burned ruins around it. At the very least, it provides cover.

Byleth frees him from the saddle and bags, tying the reigns to a post that appears stable enough. Then, he soaks a towel in the rain outside and wraps it around the injured leg; the swelling has gotten worse, up to the point where it is visible. He needs to get him dry, too, or else he might lose him as well.

And, so, he works, rubbing him dry, before he secures the leg with a piece of wood in case it has fractured. By the time he’s done, he has worked up a sweat.

The rain does not let up. Thunder cracks loud enough to hurt his ears, lightning illuminates the darkness.

Jeritza has set up a small fire, and he steps closer, breath hitching in his throat.

He sits, all-consuming silence between them. Byleth steals a glance at the man and finds him staring at the flames; he watches closer and finds that he has changed out of his armor.

Perhaps he should too, before he falls sick himself; he walks back to his luggage and gets another set of clothes, changing right there, while a gaze burns into his back, cluttered with pale scars to which none have been added in a long time. He tries to not let it get to him.

When he returns to the fire, Jeritza looks at him strangely; it is not the hunger for a fight but something soft instead, as if the Death Knight has stopped plaguing him. There are no words.

Night comes, all the same to the howling beast outside. If he closes his eyes, there will only be nightmares, so he cleans the Sword of the Creator instead, careful not to cut himself. His fingers always shake far away from the battlefield when he holds it, and he can never truly tighten his grip.

“You,” he begins and swallows, and Byleth’s hands settle on the bloodied blade as he looks up, “paired with that sword. It may bring about my end.”

The tone in his voice gives him pause. “Do you want to die?”

“I … I do not know,” he replies. “Perhaps I do.” He comes an inch short of shrugging his shoulders, draws them up as if expecting a blow and then lowers them as if remembering there won’t be one. “Do you want to die?”

He opens his mouth to reply and shuts it the next moment when he does not want to say. “No,” he says, and it tastes like a lie, “but I don’t know what I’ll do after the war.”

“What do you mean?” Curiously, he tilts his head, pale strings of hair framing his face. He looks warm, in the flicker of the flame, and he wants to reach out, to feel that warmth.

“All I can do is fight,” he answers. “All I truly want to do is fight. I thought about becoming a mercenary again-”

“We must duel,” Jeritza announces. It sounds final – meant to be. He doesn’t care anymore.

“Yes,” he says and finds himself looking forward to it.

Sleep comes for him eventually, leaving him with dreams all bloodied and bruised, before morning falls and they break camp, as the storm has grown quiet outside. They work quickly, together.

“Ah,” he says and Byleth frowns in confusion; he freezes, when the other man suddenly reaches out for the curved of his neck, fingertips dropping to the healed cut. He had nearly forgotten about it.

“I … injured you,” he continues, warm breath against his skin, some sort of longing in his gaze.

“It’s just a scratch, Jeritza,” he replies, pulse racing and barely able to breath; heat flushes his face.

“I was … thinking of our duel,” he says then, nails scratching along his skin as his grip tightens. Byleth forgets to breathe, his heart stills in his chest. “I must know which of us will emerge victorious. For now, I will have to use my imagination and savor the potential outcomes of that future.”

He swallows heavily as a thumb tilts up his chin until he has no choice but to look at him, and, the love-struck fool that he is, he can only stare breathlessly as he listens; it sounds nice, that duel.

“Do you … really want to keep going with this?”

“No,” he says, still holding his gaze. “That is enough. I must refrain from such fantasies.”

He hums in response, unsaid words drowning him, suffocating him, and yet he knows that he will never quite speak them, because they hold too much meaning; they will find their end at each other’s blades.

“Don’t you mind?” Byleth asks, watching confusion flicker over his face. “Being so close, I mean.”

“Oh,” he says. “I am … not sure. With you, I don’t mind.” He hesitates, for a moment. “I will follow you to the very gates of hell.”

He would have thought it a confession, if he did not know better; perhaps it is, perhaps it is the next best thing.

A sly smile spreads across his features, the Demon bares its teeth.

Edelgard awaits them at the gazes, arms crossed and expecting an explanation; her anger smooths once he explains. Captain’s limp has gotten worse, so he’ll probably spend his last few years in the stables, getting absolutely spoiled rotten. Byleth owes him that much.

He barely talks to Jeritza the next few days, which is by far not out of the ordinary, but the doubt stabs him in the chest, no matter how far he pushes it away – he knows him well enough by now to see the hesitation in his movements and the way he looks at him. It still takes a week of trying to convince himself to be reasonable when they run into each other, purely by accident; they can barely hold a conversation, words heavy like lead walls tumble from his mouth, while he is met with iron silence.

“The emperor said we were to no longer associate,” Jeritza says then, conflict showing on his face and in his voice.

His heart twists in his chest. “What?” It does not come as a surprise, not entirely at least, he has figured it would happen eventually, and, yet, he cannot help but panic.

“She said it would not be safe.” His face changes into something between anger and understanding.

“Are you … following that order?” Byleth asks, his own voice ringing so very strangely in his ears. To him, it is a quick decision; it’s the one order he cannot, will not, follow, for his own selfish reasons (or whatever he is to call his need to cling to his fickle humanity). Around him, he breathes easier, he does not have to be someone he is not, he does not have to worry himself about keeping the Demon down.

“I owe her a great debt,” Jeritza replies, hesitantly, tension in his shoulders, “and, yet, I find a hesitation within me to follow. With you, I can … be myself.”

Byleth nods and manages half a smile. “I’ll talk to her,” he says. There must have been something in his voice or in his eyes; his shoulders sink, and his eyes regain their spark.

As he climbs the steps to the second floor, he finds himself wondering at which point this man has become so important to him, but he finds that he cannot say – he also finds that all the arguments he has planned to use are terribly unconvincing for a woman who has much greater plans than just war. Byleth admires that about her; this ambition drives her, and this determination will not allow her to rest until she has achieved her goal.

He enters the Audience Chamber, for a moment struck by a memory of Rhea. Instead of the archbishop, Edelgard stands in her place – it is strange, making that connection only now, but he has yet to dream about his former student killing him.

“I’d like to talk about something,” he says and fears his face gives him away; there is this look in her eyes as she regards him, all emperor, all warrior. Calculating. Guessing. No, knowing. She knows. When has he become so transparent?

“Of course,” she answers with a nod and leads him to the adjacent room. Hubert is there, watching him much like an approaching enemy, a split second from unleashing one of his spells. He might have put all assassination attempts aside, for now, but that does not mean he is in his good graces just yet, if anyone except the emperor can be.

“I suspect you’re here to talk about my recent order regarding the Death Knight and you,” she says. “Is there any problem with it?”

“Yes,” he replies without a second of hesitation. “I’m afraid I cannot follow that order.” The air in the room chills, until their bones are frozen to the very core, threatening to break into a thousand pieces if any of them moves.

“What?” The foul taste of dark magic fills his mouth, about to drain his life away.

A stern look from pale violet eyes makes her vassal fall silent.

“And why can’t you do that, Professor?” she asks, the Flame Emperor.

Well, he supposes, he has kept the truth for long enough, has he not? He figured, Shamir would have said something, at one point, or Hubert would have found out rather sooner than later, or perhaps they have never cared what kind of man he is. Or perhaps they thought him human and not a demon in human disguise. And, because he is such a horrible monster, he’d rather destroy her faith in him than suffer.

He swallows and steels himself, slowly breathing in, inhaling air so loaded with tension, he cannot help the spike of his pulse. It promises battle, after all.

“Before I became a teacher,” he says and holds her gaze, a bundle of emotions rushing through his veins, “I was known as the Ashen Demon.” If she has heard that name before, she does not show. “It slew without regret or hesitation or care. I’d be lying to say that I am different now; I’m not who I used to be, but demons do not change.”

Her face tells him nothing; he sees it in her eyes though, she looks at him differently. The man she has held in such high regards is not who she thought him to be; it must be akin to betrayal and he wonders how soon Hubert will attempt to kill him after there is no use for him, but now that he feels, he finds himself feeling strongly about Jeritza and it is something he cannot let go.

“That is why?” she questions. Simply. Coldly. If there is a deep rage burning inside of her with the same intensity as the flames of hell he will be damned to, she holds it in check. “You won’t follow my order due to some sense of familiarity?”

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He quells the demon before it can bear its face.

“Are you smitten with Jeritza?” Hubert asks then, a tone in his voice he knows too well. He looks at him like a cat that has a mouse in its grasp, toying with it until its dying breath. Except, that the dark mage makes for a much better enemy than a cat.

The corner of his mouth moves upwards, despite his best efforts. “I suppose, if you insist on using that word, I might be,” he says, “in the strangest of ways.” How does he begin to explain it? There is something especially vulnerable in the bond they share, something intoxicating, from murdering together to exchanging words far from it over tea.

“Is this selfish feeling your only reason?” The man’s dark eyes narrow. Funny, how he holds himself so high and looks down on him, when they aren’t so different.

“No,” he replies. He might as well say; it’s too late for regrets anyway. “It seems to be beneficial for the army, too.”

“It is true that he seems to be more stable recently,” Edelgard admits, “however, he poses a risk.”

“We all lash out eventually,” he tells her, “would you rather it to be sooner than later?”

“Is that a threat?”

“I’m not here for threats,” he says. Byleth breathes and reminds himself that she is just a kid, plotting her revenge ever since she saw the failings of the world with her own eyes, while he was busy burying himself under corpses and drowning in blood. He eases. “I know that I ask a great deal of you, when I have proven to be someone else than you thought I was. But I must ask, for we’re at war, and war is no kind thing.” He has a good idea how this will turn out, but what is a little discontent, in a world he will leave within a few years? No use in keeping his hopes up; demons live short mortal lives and revel in eternal damnation.

“Very well,” she says, having grown a little harder. “Do what you must. But I expect you to never disobey another order.”

He bows, and lowers himself down to his knees, waiting. She could take his head, if she wanted to. She does not.

Later that evening, after he has told Jeritza that he resolved the issue – he had nodded, thankfully, confusion in his eyes about it but he hadn’t asked –, he stands on the balcony and takes in the sight: the monastery beneath him, settling for the night, the mountains in the distance, the fields. It is like nothing has happened, but now there is a nearly physical rift between him, and the emperor and it will never close.

He cannot say he regrets, for he does not, yet, he feels … sorry. In a way which he finds hard to explain; he’s tried being a better man that he is, and he has failed horribly.

“You never told me,” she says as she steps next to him, white hair set aflame by the sinking sun.

“I never wanted to,” he replies. “And, at the time, it seemed unimportant. It was just a year. It didn’t matter. But I couldn’t even see you graduate.”

“It’s not your fault,” she says and looks at him, gaze burning into him.

He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe,” he says. “I still don’t understand how most of this came to be.” He sighs and hangs his head, defeated in this regard. Perhaps it is better to burn bridges now, than when he has lost himself (and he will, he knows that, because the demon will eventually tear through his composure and control). “Look at what war has done to do. I never wanted that for you because I know best that there is no coming back from it.” He wrings his hands and studies them: All he sees is blood, dripping from his fingertips, deep red and fresh.

“You’ve done enough,” she says and a hand settles on his shoulder. “Thank you, my teacher.”

He has not, Byleth knows, they’re just trying to make themselves feel better: There is no taking back the words that have been spoken, there is no undoing the damage, and, given the chance, he would do the same thing all over again anyway.

“You should hate me,” he says, still not looking at her – he already knows what he would see. “I had your trust and I abandoned it.”

“I did consider taking your head,” she says and laughs. No joy to it.

“But you didn’t.” _Maybe you should have_ , he wants to tell her, thinking about how suspicious the quiet in his head is.

“No, I didn’t.”

They fall silent. His eyes wander across the sky, from one star to another, so close and so far.

“I admire you,” he tells her then, managing half a smile, “you have a vision, a dream, and you fight for it. I’m sure you’re going to win.” _Without me_ , he adds silently. It all feels like lies, it feels like goodbye. What wisdom does he have to pass one, out of all people? He has never made a wise decision in his life. “You’re strong, Edelgard. You’ll make it right.”

“Thank you,” she says with a smile. “I occasionally worry that I will end up just like the people I despise.”

“You have friends,” he replies, “good friends. Trust them. Listen. They will not lead you astray.”

The night settles, cold air coming with it. He remembers the conversation with his father where he asked him if he ever regretted his choice and he supposes, he now knows what Jeralt felt like, back then: torn, between protecting his child and the Blade Breakers and himself.

“When you look at him,” she says, her hands held together in front of her body, “and you think no one is watching, you smile like the sun.”

“I never knew I could do that before,” he admits and laughs quietly, chuckling towards the fractured stars. “I went through most of my life thinking that I could only fight. It was the only thing that made me feel alive. Until I came here.” He swallows. “And yet, nothing changed. At first. I watched you struggle and felt nothing. But I knew it was wrong and pretended that it wasn’t like that. Then, after killing Solon, it was … different.” He does not tell of his still heart and how it only started beating after the darkness consumed him and a goddess gave herself to save him.

She nods, watching him. “I noticed, but I could never put it into words. Do you have any idea why?”

“No,” he says, tangling himself into another lie. She would not believe him, if he told her; she barely believed that he has slept for five years. (He thinks he must have; the dead don’t dream, after all.)

“I have a question,” she says eventually, and he nods, “what will you do after the war?”

“I’ll see your war through,” he answers. “I’m afraid there will be no place for a man like me in your world by the time you’re done.”

Her shoulders drop, ever so slightly. “I see.”

They return to their silence, not quite the sort of peace they used to have. It’s close enough to play pretend, for now.

Life continues, he establishes another fickle routine. And, for a while, it is fine, until it is not.

They go to war. Their victories come as no surprise, but he feels himself grow unsteady again, like the very first time he set foot into Garreg Mach. The Ashen Demon breaks through his ribs, rearing its ugly head and baring its bloody hands to anyone who dares to look.

(He is fourteen again and holds his very first sword – a rusted, dull blade his father gave him for practicing. The bandits don’t care, they have been raiding villages and killing innocents. Any other child would have screamed. Byleth smiled and bared his teeth before he cut them down and, for the very first time, he nearly felt a heart beating in his chest as he drained the life from their bodies, watching them go limb. He felt _alive_ as he took the only thing he did not have from them.)

It is the same now; his enemies do not know what they’re in for. They swarm him, and he cuts them down – slicing open their throats and piercing their chests, cutting away at their knees and impaling them as they fall, until blood stains his hair and armor, until he has forgotten that he intended to keep the beast at bay.

At the forward camp, he hears whispers of the demon he is and gazes follow him, flickering back and forth, horrified, but he simply retreats to the outskirts of the camp where he shares a tent with Jeritza.

“They are talking about you,” he says without looking up from what he is doing.

“They do,” Byleth agrees and lowers himself to the grounds, leaning against the Sword. It seems a sacrilege, to use such a weapon to support his weight and sink it into the dirt.

There is no need to talk about their admirable performances. The longer this war goes on, the better they get; they thrive right in the chaos.

He watches him clean the blood from his Scythe and sharpen it, forgetting the world around him, he begins to understand what he sees when he looks at him: this overwhelming feeling of awe and the tingling sensation under his skin. It’s in the way his hands hold his weapons, he knows what he is doing, and he deals death so exceptionally well that he finds himself imagining their duel, only to have his mind come up empty again. How can he picture fighting him, when another part of him, just as vocal as the demon, wants to pull him close instead, way before they share their last breaths?

“Jeritza,” he says, half-breathless, half-struck by the strangest of emotions.

The man looks up. His eyes are as black as the night.

“I really hope you’re the one who will kill me,” he says. It comes as close as it can to admitting this other feeling with which he has been hit so recklessly, the one that tightens his chest in joy and leads his mind back to the moment where there was barely an inch between their faces.

“Will I? I wonder.”

“I once dreamed that Rhea killed me.”

The Death Knight hisses, “She will _not_.”

“Good. I don’t want to fall to her.”

The next morning, he is met by his students, Shamir, and Alois, waiting for him when he approaches the middle of the camp. He stills and breathes and tries not to think about what it could mean.

Where he anticipates fear, there is concern; do they think him to be a victim of war? Perhaps. He does not mean to cause more harm.

They assure him that they do not think less of him.

“I don’t mind if you do,” he tells them, not sure what to say, “I sometimes do myself.”

But their respect is unwavering, such as their determination – he admires that and bites his tongue and smiles.

“You can smile?” Caspar’s shock makes him laugh.

Barely a week later, he is securing the woods close to their campsite on a hunch; he’s been right, there are people in hiding. He does not call for help. Does not even smile. He just cuts them down, whirling between them, blood pooling at his feet, corpses lining the ground. They have no chance; he is made for this and they are not.

An arrow pierces his shoulder. The Sword expands and separates the archer’s upper body from his legs.

Byleth scowls at the body and then at himself for being careless. He breaks off the shaft, not touching it further, as someone else needs to take a look at it; he is not bleeding badly, so it is probably no lethal injury.

The pain has evolved into a dull pounding by the time he has made it back to camp. His arm aches every time he dares moving it. Unpleasant but manageable. When has been the last time he has been injured? He barely remembers.

Only few soldiers have remained, stationed for security; everyone else is out, whether for scouting or supplies. It will be a while before they return.

“Lord Byleth!” One of the soldiers approaches. “What happened?”

“There were bandits,” he says simply and shrugs, flinching immediately after. “Could you find me some bandages?”

“Of course!” The woman bolts from where she stands.

He makes it to his tent and sits down, all his movements frustratingly slow. It’s getting worse now that the thrill of battle is wearing off, his head grows heavy, blood covers his fingers. It might just be a torn muscle, so all he needs to do for now is to stop the bleeding and bandage it up nicely until Linhardt or Dorothea return. It sounds easier than it is, only having one arm at his disposal.

The soldier returns, setting down a bowl filled with water, a washcloth, bandages, and a vulnerably.

“Thanks,” he mutters. She lingers, as if waiting for instructions, but he waves her away, insisting that he can handle it, even though he is aware that he cannot; there is no need for more people than absolutely necessary to see him wounded. (An animalistic instinct, it is, not to want to see injured, as if they could leave him behind.)

Byleth starts by removing his armor to better access the wound, which works about as well as one would expect in his position, which means, horribly. The pain increases, up to the point where holding his arm still already brings unbearable agony, sweat covers his skin, his fingers grow weak and keep slipping from the leather and plates, his head feels as it might fall off any second.

He curses under his breath, eventually managing to free his shoulder, layers and leather and metal pooling in his lap. The cold makes him shudder, blood drips down, smeared all over his skin. Gently, he touches the wound. It radiates heat but has not swollen, as far as he can tell.

The flap of the ten parts and he comes face to face with Jeritza; anger flickers over the man’s face.

“I’m not dying,” Byleth tells him with a sigh. It’s the truth and yet it feels like a lie – this is not about how close he is to death, it is … about something else.

“Good,” he replies, eyes following the trail of blood up his chest and then to his shoulder as he steps closer and reaches out – ever so hesitantly –, nearly like the sight is holy. Rare, yes, but holy? The Ashen Demon? “Your blood on your skin – ah.” His fingers come away wet. A hungry look dances in his eyes that makes something in his stomach curl.

“I’d appreciate a little help,” he says then, shaking the man from his trance. He nods.

A hand steadies his back as he helps, fingers curling against his scars; removing the red from his skin and securing the wound with bandages, one hand resting more often than strictly necessary between his shoulder blades, over an especially high number of long healed injuries like a faded memory.

“My hands stained with your blood,” Jeritza muses eventually. “It’s a beautiful sight.”

A demonic smile spreads on his lips and Byleth holds out his hands, stained with his own blood.

He hums in agreement and says, “Yes, that is, too,” but his eyes are on his chest and face and the scratch from so long ago. “So very beautiful.”

If his heart beast in a chaotic rhythm when he reaches for the vulnerably, he does not tell.

They wash their hands clean; the water turning a familiar color.

When the Black Eagle Strike Force returns, Dorothea scolds him for growing so careless while she works her magic; he apologizes, meaning what he says, head filled with a thousand other things.

Night falls. Sleep does not; the pain keeps him awake, always buzzing at the edge of his consciousness.

“Were you careless?” Jeritza asks from the dark.

“If I had been trying to impress you, I would have made sure you were there,” he replies.

He dreams of bathing in blood again and he dreams of Jeritza’s bloody hands and the way he looks at them and the way they feel against his skin, of lingering warm touches from calloused fingers, he dreams of _him_ , bringing about his end.

In the morning, he wakes with a smile.

The war reaches its climax. They’re closing in on the Kingdom, after the Alliance lies in shambles. The forward camp is filled with tensions; sleep evades him, so he walks between the tents, just out of reach of the fire in the middle.

He spots Jeritza looming in the shadows, face distorted by what can only be the Death Knight. An unfortunate soul walks by him, unaware, and he lashes out; Byleth blocks the blow and the startled soldier takes off.

“Must … slay …”

“You have a deal with the emperor, remember?” His once injured shoulder ache, or perhaps it is simply his imagination; they come close, close enough that they might cut each other.

“Soon,” he tells him, hushed and forced and urging, not wanting to attract attention – it would not end well.

It seems to calm him, for now.

Rhea sets the city aflame and he quiets a laugh: It’s the perfect scenery for someone like him. He fights like he has never fought before, the Death Knight right behind him, they leave a trail of dead bodies which leads up to the Immaculate One.

Her claws come down on him and he knows there is not enough time to dodge but he cannot stand her blow either; the Death Knight distracts her for long enough to slip out of harm’s way. From the corners of his eyes, he watches in awe, forcing down a smile that means nothing and everything.

They slay her, all together, green blood spilling, flooding the courtyard. He falls and stumbles and – darkness. And, then, he comes to, surrounded by people who have become dear, tears of joy and cries of victory, but his attention settles on one man alone.

That night, they sleep in tents. He has retreated early from celebrations, never has been too fond of it; he’s not surprised to find Jeritza there already, looking as if he has just waited for him.

Byleth settles on the ground, heart beating in his chest. (He has told Edelgard that he would see her war through, which is wildly different from the one they just won, but … there is only so much to do.)

“You were beautiful,” the man tells him breathlessly, in awe – he does not need to see him to know about the glimmer in his eyes, the way he looks at him like he could bring about the greatest massacre. (And, he could; maybe that is why it spurs his heartbeat.)

“Yes,” he replies, “so were you. Thank you.”

He hums and there is silence again; the smell of smoke lingers. The celebrations continue in the distance.

Gradually, Byleth grows aware of how they sit much closer than usual, in a way that stills his heart, and he cannot manage to look away and play pretend again. His heart twists in his chest; he debates what to do.

“The way you look at me-” Jeritza shifts; the distance between them grows smaller. He doesn’t finish his sentence.

The fires outside set him aflame and Byleth wants nothing more than to just … kiss him, maybe. He has never kissed someone before. Never wanted to. But now, it’s either that or stabbing him.

Jeritza reaches out, one hand settling on his side, fingers pressing against his ribs behind which his heart thunders and they wander up, all the way to his shoulder and neck, before he tilts his head, running them along the scratch from so long ago.

“I occasionally still dream about your blood on my hands,” he tells him, “it tempts me to slay you.”

“What’s stopping you?” He leans into the touch and looks at him. So close. So very close.

“You,” he muses, thumb settling against his throat like a knife. “I find myself … not wanting to kill you. Sometimes.”

Byleth doesn’t have a coherent thought.

“You … make it … very hard not to-” His head tips forward as he speaks and their lips brush – a frighteningly gentle gesture, for who they are. His fingers settle at the base of his skull, and he falls into the hesitant kiss, as if either of them could break so easily. Perhaps, considering how vulnerable they are, without their armor and without keeping everyone else a sword’s length away.

He tangles his fingers in his pale, soft hair, and presses the other against him, fingers digging into his clothes. There is a hunger in the back of his throat, distinct from any other. Byleth sinks to the ground, a hand lingering on his back, and he arches into the touch, both of them a tangled mess of limbs, out of breath. Lips feather down his jaw and neck; he pulls him close.

They pause for a moment that turns into eternity.

“No,” he mutters mournfully, “not just yet.” He looks like many things, in that light drowned by the fabric of the tent, but he does not look like the Death Knight.

“Not just yet,” he agrees, while something stirs mournfully in his chest.

He dreams of curling close and stolen promises and bloodied hands as they lay waste to the world, two demons on their path down to hell while the world moves on without them – when he wakes, they have curled close, half-meant kisses pressed to each other.

The emperor still wages her own war and they gladly accept the invitation to continue their murderous ways (and lingering touches and stolen kisses through the years of it), until Edelgard announces her peace. She thanks them, for their service, and they bow, once two generals, now nothing more than that. Scholars will speak of them, some day.

(He says his farewells to his students, which all have gathered one last time to see him off; he thanks them and Alois and Shamir. _I’ll leave the world to you_ , he thinks. _You’ve turned out well_.)

On their way out of the palace in Enbarr, Jeritza says, “Now,” and Byleth hums in agreement. They do not so much as glance at each other, as they leave the imperial court with whispers and rumors at their backs.

The scene of their final battle – a stretch of land that has seen much more death than any other, the ground slick with blood, mud clinging to their boots – is truly befitting. One last breath, one last moment as human, one last moment pretending to be more than their beasts, when they have known for so long that they will eventually take over.

Then, their last battle, the Death Knight and the Ashen Demon.

Byleth whirls and dodges; his blade slides off the spiked armor. Thrill fills his veins, adrenaline replaces the air. He knows his every move, his every twitch, they’ve danced so often, an arm’s length apart. Now, they dance, and it feels _fated_ : For a while, he’s sure that there is no end, that they have locked each other into an eternal, immortal, battle for the rest of time. Always just out of each other’s reach.

Alas, he spills the first blood, gracing his face. They’re like animals; at the sight of it, they forget everything else, they forget that they ever have been human, they forget that a part of them wanted to hold on. (They forget that they could have been more, maybe, if they had tried.)

Byleth takes a blow to his side and shoulder, Jeritza suffers a fracture to his ribs and stomach. Life drains from them, vibrant and red and so very alive, falling to the ground endlessly.

At last, his Sword pierces his chest, and he stumbles, gasping for air that no longer exists, as his Scythe impales him. They sink, crumbling, _dying_.

“To the very depths of hell,” he muses, fingers growing weak on the hilt of his blade.

“I will tumble down with you,” Jeritza says as his weapon slips from his grip.

They die as they have lived, a sword’s length apart, bloodied and bruised and murdering, upon a mountain of corpses, breathing their last as their hearts fall silent forevermore.

(They are found several days later, by farmers investigating the cause of the waters having turned red. Imperial soldiers carry two lifeless bodies to Enbarr, where they are prepared for a funeral and lowered into the ground, together, with their weapons; the Empress, her vassal, and closest friends linger at the grave.)

(The history books briefly speak of a former mercenary who became a professor and later a strategist for the Adrestian Empire, mentioning him like an afterthought, just like the boy who killed his father and was placed elsewhere. They speak in detail of the Ashen Demon and the Death Knight instead, trying to discern their reasons, not knowing that they had none; they examine their relationship, ultimately unable to determine its very nature. They speak of how close they were, getting it all wrong. Some say they still wander hell, slaughtering, and it would be a comforting thought, to know that they found their twisted happiness; if only there was such a thing as the afterlife.)


End file.
